Tomorrow
by Remy2
Summary: "All your tomorrows start here." Post-Smashed, Buffy freaks.


TITLE: Tomorrow (1/1)  
AUTHOR: Remy A. (http://www.geocities.com/remyallegory)  
RATING: PG13  
SPOILERS: abstract "Smashed"  
CATEGORY: B/S; Angst (morning-after weirdness)  
SUMMARY: "All your tomorrows start here."  
DISCLAIMER: Joss is just pimpin' them out to me for this story.  
FEEDBACK: I crave it like Buffy craves Spike, like Spike craves  
blood, and various other gutter-like metaphors. Or, puh-leeeeez?   
I'll be your best friend...  
DEDICATED: To whoever had the grand idea of roughing Spike up for  
next week's post-coital goodness. Mmm. Buffy clawmarks. Clawmarks  
of Buffy.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just some short, post-"Smashed" dribble. That was  
some naughty stuff, eh? Grrrufff...I like. And did their song  
remind anyone else of "The Last of the Mohicans"? Or am I just oddly  
odd? It was kinda new-age-y and Enya-esque. Definitely not  
wham-bam-see-ya-ma'am, B-rated porn, chicca-chicca bow-wow music if  
ya catch my drift...  
  
  
TOMORROW  
"...Everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through  
her like a river of blood. She only looked away for a moment, and  
the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here,"  
(qtd. in "The Girls" by Neil Gaiman).  
  
  
She hates him. And she has to remind herself of this as she slams  
him against this wall and another, as she digs holes in his skin with  
her nails, as she kisses and claws her way from one side of herself  
to the other, as she /eventually/ pushes him away and as she  
/quietly/ walks out. She hates him and she's never hated him more  
and she's never hated herself more and /jesus christ/ why can't she  
walk straight, why can't she wipe this stupid smile off her face.  
  
She'll just keep reminding herself of how much she hates him. She'll  
blame the scratches and bruises on a Frolac demon and she'll never  
look him in the eyes again, because those eyes -- she knows -- could  
be the death of her, someday, if she's not careful. She'll tell Dawn  
she couldn't sleep. She'll say it was the nightmares, again -- and  
hell, if she really wants to be a bitch about it, she'll tell herself  
that it's almost the truth, so it's not even really a lie.  
  
But then, as she leaves, as she walks the back alleys in the black  
night, she begins to remember the pain. The farther she treads from  
where he is sleeping and will /probably/ wake up alone, the more she  
knows. And she finds her hands are trembling and she knows it's  
because she's remembering, and he made her forget. The horrible  
sinking feeling in her gut returns and she knows, somewhere, in the  
back of her mind, of her heart, that he could make that go away, if  
she'd just let him.  
  
She hates him. It sounds plausible, it's a legitimate emotion given  
their history. She'll say it out loud. "I hate Spike." And that,  
too, sounds reasonable. Her voice is steady and deep, but not *too*  
deep, like she's been practicing or something.  
  
No, this isn't good enough. She has to tell him. That she hates  
him. This way he'll forget that he loves her and he'll forget this  
ever happened and then she'll *really* be able to move on. Then  
he'll be free, and she can watch him go from her side of the road,  
and hell, maybe she'll even wave goodbye. If her hands would stop  
shaking.  
  
"I hate you. I can't see you, anymore. You should leave town. We  
can still be friends."  
  
There, that wasn't too hard.  
  
Now all she has to do is wake him up. And tell him again. She  
practices her annoyed voice, so he'll know that she's been wasting  
good daylight waiting for him.  
  
She kicks his leg and he opens his eyes, and she's going to tell him.  
Really. This was all such a horrible mistake. "I-- I hate you,"  
she says in such a low voice she wonders if he even heard her.  
  
His eyes are open and his mouth is forming a slight smile and she  
makes the mistake of looking at him. She wants to rip him apart, and  
she wants to put him back together, all at the same time. He has  
marks, too. On his chest and back. A bruise on the right side of  
his gut, nail marks across his shoulder.  
  
She hates him, and she knows it's because she doesn't really hate him  
at all. She kicks her boots off and lays back down on the hard  
floor, his coat as their bed. "I mean...It's freezing," she says as  
she buttons her jean jacket and pushes her body closer to his. She  
holds onto him with steady hands. His body is cold, but she's never  
felt warmer. He kisses her once on the cheek and once on the lips,  
and then he lays back, and she falls asleep. And when she wakes up,  
his eyes are the first thing she sees.  
  
THE END  
11.21.01  
  
"I can't believe I'm really here / And she's lying in that bed / I  
stumble in the hallway / Outside her bedroom door / I hear her call  
out to me / I hear the fear in her voice / She pulls her covers  
tighter / I press against the door / I will be with her tonight."   
("tyler," the toadies)  
  
=====  
remy allegory. grr. arrgh.  
ready, randy? ready, joan.  
geocities.com/remyallegory 


End file.
